


In the Footsteps of Dawn

by glorious_spoon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean escaped from Purgatory, but that doesn’t mean he’s done running. Missing moments from 8.01.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Footsteps of Dawn

There's a rustle in the leaves overhead and he jerks to a halt, but it's just a squirrel. Goes down easy to a flip of his blade, and he skins it while he walks, kicks leaves over the offal but veers away anyway--

(blood they can smell the blood can’t stop moving until he finds running water to mask it)

\--just to be safe. Skinned and gutted, the squirrel barely makes a mouthful. He’s eaten worse in his time, but this is topside. He’s topside. Odds are reasonably good that nothing’s actively trying to kill him right this moment, which means he can stop long enough to make a fire, to eat cooked meat. He can’t remember the last time he had that luxury. Before Benny, he thinks. Back when Cas--

\--no. Not going there.

There are firestarters in the pack he grabbed, and there’s plenty of dry wood around; the flames lick into the darkness while he carves a stick to skewer his dinner on, the crackling sound and the smell of smoke just this side of familiar. Warmth on his hands. He almost forgot what that felt like. His arm feels sore and hot, like there’s some fiery creature curled beneath the surface of his skin, but he ignores it. He’s got a fire, and a meal, and nothing is trying to kill him. Benny can wait, for now.

He doesn’t linger long, but it’s still later than he likes when he finally forces himself to unfold from his crouch and kick dirt over the smoldering coals. It’s starting to get light out, and by the time he makes it down to the main road, dawn is fully in the sky. It’s a cool morning, dew in the sparse grass at his boots and the lingering smell of exhaust. A truck roars past, the wind lifting the sweaty hair off his forehead. Dean hefts the pack onto his shoulder and starts walking.

It takes five more vehicles passing by before it occurs to him to stick his thumb out, and another fifteen before anyone even slows down. It’s an old man in a pick-up, and he peers at Dean over the steering wheel for a long moment before he finally rolls the window down and waves him over.

“Where you headed to, son?”

His face is friendly, but there’s wariness there too. He’s looking at Dean like he’s dangerous, like he’s something to be afraid of instead of just a filthy, tired human. Non-threatening is a look he hasn’t tried in a while, but this is something he used to be good at. Used to be able to charm the socks off of almost everyone he met. He tries a smile, figures it comes out normal from the way the guy relaxes a little. Good. He can do this. It’s all good. “Just looking for a ride up the highway a ways, if you don’t mind.” His voice comes out normal, too. Friendly. Human. “Can’t pay you gas money, but--”

He used to pay for his rides other ways, back before he had the Impala, but that ain’t exactly an option right now. Not when he feels half-dead and probably smells like three-day-old roadkill.

The old man waves him off, and his smile is all the way relaxed now. So damn _trusting,_ not that Dean’s complaining. “Don’t worry about that, I got a ways to go anyhow. Climb on in.”

“Thanks,” Dean says. He pulls the door open, slides into the cab, which smells like corn dust and old leather and cigarette smoke. There’s a ring on the guy’s finger; silver, which means he’s not a shifter, and any demon worth its salt would have recognized Dean. That’s good enough for now, as long as he stays alert. “Really, man, thank you.”

“No problem,” the old man says. He yanks the old truck back into gear and pulls out onto the road, and Dean settles back to watch the half-alien world around him go rolling by.

***

  
“So, you got a name, kid?”

Dean turns his head to look at the old man, who is still watching the road like there’s nothing extraordinary about what he just asked.

Names have power. He ran with Benny for weeks before they got around to introductions, but this isn’t Purgatory, and the rules of Purgatory don’t apply anymore. He needs to get used to that.

“Dean,” he says. “My name is Dean.”

“Abraham,” the old man offers without looking away from the road. “Nice to meet you, Dean.”

***

  
They stop at a rest station around noon. Abraham fills the tank while Dean stares out the window, taking in the wind-ruffled trees on the other side of the highway, the smell of hot asphalt and exhaust fumes. A man is walking across the parking lot with a toddler on his shoulders and a plastic cooler in one hand. Sunlight catches in the boy’s hair, and the peal of his laughter is as sharp as a bell.

Footsteps coming around the other side of the car, and Dean turns at the sound, hand going to the hilt of his knife. It’s just Abraham, though, leaning in through the window to toss a wrapped sandwich in his direction. Dean catches it reflexively, raises his eyebrows, and the old man smiles. “You looked like you could use that,” he says. And then, after a short hesitation, “There’s a bathroom inside, if you wanna clean up a little bit.”

Dean looks down at his hands, which are holding the cellophane-wrapped sandwich. Turkey salad, according to the label. Not his favorite, but a damn sight better than half-raw squirrel. His hands are filthy, grime ground into the creases of his knuckles, blood under his broken fingernails. The rest of him probably doesn’t look much better. These things matter, here.

“Yeah,” he says. “Probably a good idea.”

***

  
Abraham has a spare button-down, and there’s a clean t-shirt in the bag he took from the campers. The guy was smaller than him, so it’ll probably be a tight fit; on the other hand, there’s no blood, human or otherwise, on it.

Inside is too bright, too loud, too _much,_ bright neon signs, the smell of fried grease, tomato sauce and refried beans, floor polish and burnt coffee and cheap perfume. A food counter selling tacos and sandwiches and pizza, two gift shops, a traveler’s aid counter. People. Families with kids, truckers in greasy jeans and ball-caps, a busload of teenagers wearing matching jerseys and carrying backpacks, and they’re all talking, the echo of dozens of conversations bouncing off the tile walls and high ceiling to create a dizzying cacophony of noise.

A middle-aged woman wearing a Disneyland t-shirt with jeans and a fanny-pack gives him a funny look and veers away as she passes. It’s probably mostly because he looks (and smells) like he just crawled out of a sewer, but it does make Dean aware that he’s backed against a wall, breathing like he’s been running and clutching the pack to his chest.

This is stupid. They’re just _people,_ for fuck’s sake.

He forces himself to relax, gives the woman a brief smile that she doesn’t return. He’s fine. It’s all good. He can do this. The men’s room is right by the entrance, so he doesn’t have to cross through the crowd to get to it. Inside is too bright and smells of bleach, but it’s empty other than a man in a business suit who ignores Dean stripping out of his mangled jacket, button-down, and t-shirt. Five minutes and twenty paper towels later, he’s as clean as he’s been in months. He pulls on the too-tight t-shirt and button-down, scrubs both hands through his hair. It’s still gritty under his fingers, but he can get a motel room and a real shower after he takes care of Benny.

The face in the mirror is very nearly that of a stranger, gaunt and haunted with wild-animal eyes. Dean stares at it for a moment, then rubs a hand over his unshaven jaw and turns away.

He pitches his mangled shirt and jacket into the garbage on the way out the door and heads back to the truck. Nobody stares at him this time.

He’s fine. It’s all fine.

***

  
Abraham drops him off in the parking lot of a run-down Citgo two towns up, presses a crumpled twenty into his hand and wishes him good luck. Dean stands under the blinking neon sign and watches him pull back out onto the highway, thumb running absently over the softened edge of the bill. The shadows are starting to deepen, a red sun sinking low in the sky. Normally, this would be the time of day where he’d start looking for a safe place to hole up. Purgatory is dangerous during the day, but at night, out in the open like this--

This isn’t Purgatory.

Focus.

The gas station is almost empty, the attendant disinterested. Dean buys a road map, a bottle of water, and a prepaid cell phone; he also slips five candy bars and a double handful of Slim Jims into his pockets. It’s far from the smoothest lift he’s ever pulled off, but if the attendant notices, he doesn’t bother to say anything.

In the parking lot, he sits down on the step, back to the wall and facing the road, pulls out the phone, and starts dialing.

***

  
_We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is temporarily out of service._

_We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is--_

_We’re sorry, the number--_

_We’re sorry--_

_We’re sorry--_

Seriously, he’s gonna hunt that damn machine down and pump it full of holes. Five numbers. Five, and no Sammy. It’s like he’s a goddamn ghost. Like he’s--

No. Sammy is fine, he’s just being a bitch. Maybe the Feds got on his ass again and he had to dump his phones. Maybe he can’t find his goddamn charger. He’s _fine._

The sixth call goes to voicemail for someone named Annie, and Dean’s fingers aren’t shaking as he punches in the seventh number; or if they are, it’s just because his arm is hot and prickling again, one damn impatient undead vampire soul squirming around under his skin--

Two rings, and then: “Hello?”

Dean lets out a breath like he’s been punched in the chest, can’t actually bring himself to speak for a long moment. On the other end of the line, Sam’s voice sharpens. “Hello? Who is this?” And then, “Okay, I’m hanging up--”

“Sammy,” Dean manages, and there’s a clatter, a muffled curse on the other end of the line.

“Dean?” He sounds, suddenly, about twelve. “Oh, my God, Dean.”

“Hey, Sammy." Dean closes his eyes, lets himself smile. It feels genuine, for the first time in a long time. "I made it out.”  
  



End file.
